Chapter 18
eighteen
Alex
I’ve never particularly liked golfing, but years ago decided it was a necessary evil—first to spend time with my dad, then for a political career.
Tim and I don’t golf together often because the optics of both executive branch leaders taking time out of the day for relaxation doesn’t go over well with the public. But we take advantage of the days when our teams allow that the visual of the executive branch leaders getting along may outweigh other concerns.
“Nice socks,” Tim comments first thing upon greeting me. We drove separately and we’ll have separate golf carts with separate security, too. We’re waiting by the carts for the final all-clear from the Secret Service.
Lifting one foot, I show off my Got balls? socks. Unlike almost every other pair of gaudy novelty socks I own—which is a lot—this pair is from Tim.
“You don’t think they’re inappropriate for a date with the president?” I joke.
“I don’t know, it’s been years. What’s dating like these days? ”
“Doesn’t seem to have gotten any easier.” I shrug helplessly.
“Ah, so Anita was right.”
Internally debating protesting that the status is brand-new, I abandon my pride and shrug. “Anita’s always right.”
Tim cuts right to the chase. “How long you planning on keeping it a secret?”
“As long as she wants to, I guess.” I’ve been thinking about this—a lot—and it doesn’t seem like it should be my decision. “Being the vice president’s girlfriend, publicly, seems like a big job. And she’s already got a big job.”
“You’re right, it’s a shitty job and one that doesn’t come with a salary. Just ask Anita. In fact, you should have her talk to Anita, whenever she’s ready.” Responding to the Secret Service signal, we start walking toward the tee, continuing our private conversation despite being in the middle of a group of agents, staff and caddies. You learn how to pretend you’re alone in this job. “You think you’ll get that far?”
I shrug again. “How do I know?” It’s not a rhetorical question.
“You're looking for a partner, not just a date,” Tim says, rapidly summarizing the salient points the way he would in a national crisis. “You want someone with a strategic vision for your life together that goes beyond politics. But you also need someone who can help you through your next campaign. I’d advise you to set aside your feelings and consider your needs.”
“It seems so transactional,” I sigh, examining my nine iron.
“If she’s smart, she’s doing the same calculus,” Tim says, raising his eyebrows at me over his sunglasses. “If you want long-term, you need to, too. If you’re thinking short-term...well, make a calendar and stick to it, Alex.”
I nod, stepping back for Tim’s shot. Tim’s probably right, but first I need to sort out the difference between what I want and need, because when it comes to Cindy, they’re all mixed up together.
Cindy
“Have you told anyone?” Alex asks me when I come over that night. It’s a “working meeting,” in that we discussed the latest vote I locked down while naked and touching each other in bed. It satisfied me both professionally and personally—a rarity.
He’d made me talk about whipping votes while circling my clit with his tongue.
“No,” I answer him. I’m wearing one of his shirts and digging in his fridge for omelet ingredients. He’s rumpled and delicious, bare-chested with his soft pants hanging off his hips. “I want to tell one person on my comms team, to have some kind of just-in-case strategy prepared, but the comms person I most trust is out in Colorado and I don’t want to tell her on the phone. What about you?”
“Tim knows. And my agents, obviously. And, well, some of the comms staff.”
I dump my options on the counter. “This is already becoming one of those open Washington secrets.”
Alex grimaces. He’s sitting on one of the stools pushed up against the bar counter. His kitchen appears spotless, the appliances gleaming and nothing on the counters. “I swear it’s not. All of those people are legally sworn to secrecy.”
He’s cute, but not convincing.
“Only a matter of time before some ‘anonymous source’ talks to the Times or the Post ,” I say. I’m predicting it calmly, mainly because my body is still filled with endorphins, but it’s a terrifying prospect. Yet living in denial is foolish; we know how this works. “Then they’ll be on red alert to confirm it, and we won’t be able to sneak nights like this anymore.”
He waves the scenario away. “We’re not there yet.”
“How long shall we say?” I ask. I pause what I’m doing in the kitchen and pull my phone out of my purse, which we’d dropped on the floor on our way to the bedroom earlier.
“Are you setting a calendar alert?” he asks. “You and Tim must share a brain.”
I glance up from my phone. “I think like the president of the United States? Thank you, I’ll take it.” I ignore my many notifications—after scanning to make sure nothing urgent has happened—and open my calendar app. “I wasn’t setting a reminder, but that’s honestly a great idea. We can table this discussion for now, but we should have it later. In, like...a month? I mean, assuming we’re still together then.” I say it because I should, because I’m realistic, but bleakness settles over me at the idea of a future without Alex. Already, it’s like he—and our time together—has filled a hole in my life I didn’t know was there.
He doesn’t respond directly to my suggestion, so I set a reminder in my phone for a month away. I’ve got to be smart about this, not afraid to examine it. I have so many goals outside this relationship. I can’t lose track of them.
“Can I help?” Alex is standing in front of me now, taking my phone from me and putting it on the kitchen counter as he runs his hands up and down my arms as he eyes the ingredients on the counter. He’s clearly trying to change the subject from our impending doom, but I’ll let him. When I’m with him, thinking about anything else is a struggle.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask.
He scoffs. “I nearly became a professional chef. Long time ago, during my ‘rebellious’ phase.”
“Are you serious?” I try to remember any profile I’ve read about Alex that had this detail in it. “Your secret bad boy phase involved cooking?”
“Believe it or not, the long, long road toward a career in higher office did not always appeal to me.” He nudges me aside, pulls out a shallow glass bowl and starts cracking eggs. “After the Marines, I considered going to culinary school.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He gives me side-eye. “I didn’t get in.”
“Are you serious?” I repeat myself. I laugh, delighted by this tidbit I never would have guessed about his past.
“My one big failure in life,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, your one ,” I smirk. I take in the room with new eyes. “But your kitchen looks like you never use it.”
“I never have time,” he replies. “Or I never make time, I guess. Cooking for one was never my favorite. I used to cook for my entire squad.” His eyes settle on me. “All my ingredients go bad faster when I’m only cooking for myself.”
It makes me happy that I’m giving him an excuse to do something that he loves. “You don’t make a batch of cookies for your staff every Friday?” I tease.
“I wish.” He pauses, as though considering that further. “I should do that sometime.”
Thor, up from a nap, comes running down the hall and winds between my legs, so I pick him up. Every time I see Thor’s adorable face and chocolate eyes, I want to squeal like a little girl. I kind of want to steal him from Alex, but I’ll settle for sneaking time with him whenever I get a chance.
Not that different from my strategy toward Thor’s dad—or my reaction to him, for that matter.
“Did you cook for your family?” I ask, making faces at Thor. He keeps trying to lick me and I keep ducking out of his way.
“No…” Alex trails off and I tear my gaze away from the adorable dog. He’s sliding a pan around on the heated stove with a practiced air that gives more credibility to his aspiring chef claims. It’s starting to smell amazing, like garlic and rosemary. “My mom did all the cooking for my family. No men allowed.”
I flick my eyes back at Thor to avoid reacting. “Too bad,” I say, making faces at the dog again. “Seems very limiting.”
He laughs. “You hate how gender-conforming my family is.” He’s caught me.
“I don’t know your family,” I protest. He’s right, though: I’ve made a few judgments based on clues. “But are they?”
“My parents are, absolutely. Fortunately, they sent me and my sisters to progressive schools. And they think of their values as more of a generational issue than a moral one, so they’re not judgy.” He pauses to send a grimace my way. “About most things.”
“I get it. My parents have some strong opinions as well. They think I’m too…” I trail off. “ Too .”
He keeps adding things to the pan and it keeps smelling better. “Too bold? Too progressive?”
“All of the above,” I admit. “Even as an adult, I guess I still care a little bit what they think.”
“Hey, I understand. I’ve spent my whole life being pushed into one mold or another.” Alex comes around the counter with two plates, setting one in front of me.
“Wow, garnish and everything?” I put Thor down and examine my plate. “What is even happening here.”
“Leftover salmon, goat cheese, capers on the side because I didn’t want to assume you liked them.” He brings two glasses and wine to the counter and sits while I wash my hands.
I glance at the clock on the microwave as I sit down. If I’m going to sleep tonight, I need to leave after I eat. I never stay over, of course. It would make our chances of being caught at least twice as likely. We’ve only slept together—actually slept—that one night. I shouldn’t miss something I’ve only done once, when I’m much more used to going to bed every night alone, but I do anyway.
As if he senses I’m contemplating time restraints, Alex says, “I have vacation coming up.”
“Ha.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “The vice president takes vacation?”
He smiles. “OK, a ‘no public events’ long weekend back home in California.”
“Oh, nice. Memorial Day weekend?” I take a bite of the omelet and have to pause to close my eyes. The texture is perfect. “Mmm.” I open them again and he nods, intent on his subject.
“You should come with me.” He promptly revises his words, “I want you to come with me.”
I smile briefly, because I love how careful he is with word choice. But then I frown, uncertain how to handle his request. “Someone once told me you shouldn’t plan anything farther out than you’ve been with someone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that weekend is three weeks out and we’ve only been...doing this—a couple weeks.” But I can imagine spending full days together, and nights. It sounds perfect and I haven't had a vacation myself this year.
“Dating,” he corrects me, but absently. He takes a bite. “So you can’t commit until closer, is what you’re saying.”
I’m creating obstacles out of thin air, but I hold my ground, staring at my plate so he doesn’t see I’d cave to coaxing. I don’t want to start looking forward to something I end up having to cancel because it falls apart.
That applies to the relationship as well as the trip.
“OK,” he says easily. Not frustrated at all. “But in the hypothetical case you decide to go, I’m going to give you a list of the preparation we’d need to do. You shouldn’t fly with me in that scenario, for example. But you can look at that and decide whenever you’re ready.”
One bite of eggs on my fork hovering mid-air, I stare at him. “Really?”
“Of course.” He picks up another bite and raises his eyebrows at me. “What, did you think I was going to hold you ransom?”
“And you’re so sure you won’t change your mind?”
This level of stability in a relationship isn’t something I’m used to. My relationships have often been volatile, insecure and prone to bouts of on-and-off-again passion from both me and the other person. The last person I’d dated for any length of time was several years ago and ended in a flurry of angry text messages that weren’t even about our relationship—we were arguing about gun control.
Alex is so even-tempered and direct, I don’t quite trust it. There are so many things we disagree about, and yet it’s never been a problem. He listens to me; I listen to him. There have never been raised voices between us.
“Why would I change my mind?” he replies, a ridiculous answer. Why wouldn’t he change his mind about me? I make his life more difficult.
“Vacationing alone is not exactly my favorite thing to do,” he adds. He puts his fork down and turns toward me. I put my fork down, too, recognizing we’re having a conversation that deserves full attention. He lays his hand on my knee. “I don’t mean to make light of it. But I’m not doing this with you lightly. It’s a lot of fun, but I want to take it seriously.”
A whooshing sound follows his words in my ears. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure what I feel. My feelings fill me up so tightly there’s no space to examine them. So I jump to my feet. “Thank you for saying that, but I’m going to need some time to get back to you.” The words come out without thought, something I’d say in a business meeting. Formality: my fall-back defense.
I catch myself and pause to look at Alex. “I’m sorry,” I force out, hoping he understands for what. “You surprised me. I’m surprised.”
He’s still sitting there, like nothing insane has happened. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m also not sure how to apologize for being who I am, so I say nothing. Doubt creeps in. Maybe my first instinct—to flee from this conversation—is the right one. “I really should go,” I say, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “It’s getting late.”
He nods, never prone to read into things or question my decisions. “OK. I’ll ask Ted to have them bring around a car to drop you off.”
Watching him as he knocks on the inside of his front door and then talks to an agent, I start to relax because Alex didn’t put any pressure on me over the trip. A weekend in California. With him. No suits, no meetings, no press. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than we want it to mean.
My justification to myself is that I shouldn’t make any real decisions about our relationship before seeing him like that—outside the context of D.C. and our jobs. I walk up to Alex, so I’m standing nearby when he turns around.
“It’ll just be a minute,” he says, and reaches to pull me closer to him.
I step into his arms. “Send me that prep info, will you? But I’m definitely interested in the trip.”
“Yeah?” he runs his hand down my back.
Tracing fingers over his shoulders, I nod. “I can never say no to a beach trip.”
He grins. “Northern California, so don’t pack your bikini. I mean, unless you want to wear it around the house. ”
“I changed my mind then, I don’t want to go.” I grin and pull away without any real desire to stop touching him.
He pulls me to him with the hand on my ass and slides his other under my shirt. “I promise to make it worth your while. I can probably borrow some handcuffs from the Secret Service.”
Surprised and turned on, I laugh. Yes, please, Mr. Vice President. “OK, I’ll let you know next week.”
He smirks. “Yes, ma’am.”
I make a face as I slide away from him to go grab my pants and bag. “Don’t call me ‘ma’am.’”
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” he says, filling in the teasing notes of his voice with a promise he’ll keep the next time I willingly put myself in his hands. I want to drop my purse and go back to bed with him. Only discipline keeps me moving.
Every time I walk away from him now, I look back to make sure I’m not imagining him. It’s all too good to be real.